


Talk Medical

by MitsuruAki



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Competence Kink, Deductions, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Hurt!Watson, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Procedures, Morse Code, Morse Code to Holmes-Watson speak translations, Stitches, doctor!Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-30
Updated: 2013-07-30
Packaged: 2017-12-21 20:33:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/904599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MitsuruAki/pseuds/MitsuruAki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watson comes home injured one night. Holmes tends to Watson's wounds, and is surprisingly competent and professional (because he's secretly scared to death for his [boy]friend). Watson is turned on by this like woah.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Talk Medical

**Author's Note:**

> Just starting to transfer over my fics from FF.net and LJ. First fic for the 2009!Holmes fandom, woo!
> 
> Because competence is sexy. Medicine is awesome. Therefore competent medicine is awesomely sexy. You talk that sexy medical, Holmes.
> 
> -~-

Seventeen stairs.

Holmes had pointed them out before in an effort to make a point about seeing and observing and the differences thereof, but all Watson could think about as he fought his way painfully up the staircase was that there were _too bloody many_ of them. Of course their rooms couldn’t be on the first floor; that would make things _convenient_.

His fingers clenched spasmodically around the wound in his thigh, attempting to force the gash closed enough to apply pressure and slow the bleeding until he could fix it properly. Wiping his left hand hurriedly on his trousers to remove what he hoped was most of the blood (heaven knew Mrs. Hudson would throw a fuss if she found bloody fingerprints all over her wood), he fumbled with the door and his walking stick with one hand. It took several frustrating tries before he achieved any success at turning the knob. Cursing in a rather ungentlemanly fashion, he limped inside and firmly closed the door behind him. The last thing he needed was Holmes or Mrs. Hudson coming to investigate.

He made his way haltingly over to his desk and gingerly lowered himself into the chair, stretching his leg out carefully in front of him to avoid causing any unnecessary pain. A sharp breath of air involuntarily passed his lips as the pressure was lifted from his leg, distinctly less now that he was no longer standing. Frowning into the darkness of his room, he felt for the matches he knew were somewhere near the base of the lamp and moments later the wick flared into life. Light flickered along the walls, casting dark shadows into the farthest corners of the room. Watson let his eyes adjust as he laid his cane across his desk and removed his hat, the hand rising again to unnecessarily flatten his hair.

Now, where was that blasted medical bag of his? Squinting, his eyes darted over the expanse of his room, searching for what he realized with a rapidly sinking feeling wasn’t there. Where would he…

Holmes. He’d left it in Holmes’ room, after treating the man’s hands, _again_ , after another experimental accident. He’d be lucky if any of his chemical supplies remained untouched, as his roommate had an ungodly habit of ingesting them or using them for his own semi-nefarious, curiosity-fueled purposes. He glanced from his leg, still bleeding all over his right hand and his trouser leg, to the door.

Well. Like hell was he getting up now, when he had a perfectly mobile roommate capable of making things a little easier on him. Wincing at the twinges of pain ricocheting through his leg, he half rose out of his seat and awkwardly dragged his chair a foot or so to his left, right next to the adjoining wall between their rooms. 

Not too long ago, a certain gentleman had created a new method of communication commonly known as Morse code. Holmes, always on the lookout for anything new and useful in the scientific community, seized upon the idea at once. It had, of course, played a crucial role in solving a case after he’d spent several long hours learning it, and eventually forcing this newfound knowledge upon Watson, but simply becoming proficient at Morse code, however, was not good enough for the detective. In addition to Holmes’s infernal violin playing, the doctor now had to put up with sporadic tapping messages on his wall at all hours of the night. After several months, Watson was familiar enough with both Morse code and their own habitual speech patterns to instinctively translate the static responses into the equivalent of a spoken conversation.

He cleared his throat and raised his left fist, sure Holmes would be awake even at this late hour. He knocked carefully on the wall, concentrating on the pattern, and waited.

Several moments passed in silence. This in itself was not unusual as Holmes usually required a bit of time to clear some of his mess out of the way before he could find space to respond, but as the seconds stretched into nearly a minute—

_Watson?_

Watson breathed a sigh of relief at the reply. _Holmes, I need a favor._

_You didn’t lose the rent money again, did you old boy?_

Watson scowled at the wall, affronted. _No. I—_

_That boxing match of yours ran rather late tonight, my friend. Things undoubtedly became a little heated, judging by your tread upon the stair—_

He didn’t wait for his friend to finish; whatever he’d deduced wasn’t important now. There was a slight fluctuating pressure behind his skull that may or not be the onset of vertigo from blood loss. Or maybe just frustration. _I need my medical bag, Holmes._

There was a slight pause, presumably as the detective took a look around his room. _Did you leave it in here? I have been engaged in a rather fascinating experiment for the past several hours, Watson, involving electricity and wireless communication. Did you know that if I pass an electric current through—_

The doctor rolled his eyes in irritation. God lord, the man could ramble even in Morse code. _H. O. L. M. E. S._

_I—medical bag, did you say?_

_Now, Holmes._

There was no response from the other side of the wall. Watson leaned forward stiffly to examine his leg as he waited for Holmes to arrive, frowning at the fabric blocking the view of his wound. He thrust a finger into the tear and pulled, ripping his trousers so he could see a bit more, but it wasn’t really working that well. He sighed. The damn things would probably have to come off…

Watson jerked upright, wincing, as the door unceremoniously flew open to admit Holmes in his usual casual attire, the man not even waiting for the door to close before speaking. “Now, Watson, I still don’t see why an able-bodied man such as yourself—” The detective halted abruptly as bright eyes focused on his friend, sitting illuminated in the dark. “Watson?”

“It’s fine, Holmes, if you could just hand me the—”

It was probably his mind playing tricks on him, but it seemed as though Holmes was standing at the door one second and kneeling in front of him the next.

“What’s happened here, Watson?”

Watson couldn’t stop himself from reflexively responding. “You’re the detective; you tell me, Holmes.”

In a moment Holmes had his bag open, scissors in hand, and was cutting off his right pants leg before he even realized what was happening.

“Holmes!”

The dark-haired man didn’t seem at all fazed by the outburst, nor did he pause in the slightest. “These pants are beyond salvaging, Watson, as I’m sure you’ll agree. And make an effort contain yourself; it wouldn’t do to awaken Nanny at this late hour.” The fabric vanished from his leg as Holmes pulled it away, dropping it into a pile on the floor where it was promptly forgotten.

Watson scowled irritably. “I don’t see how it was necessary—”

“Double-edged metal blade, approximately seventeen to twenty-six inches long, with a loose wooden handle,” Holmes interrupted, brow furrowed, his eyes intently examining the still-bleeding wound in the doctor’s thigh. “I believe this will need to be sewn shut, Doctor.”

“I—what?” Watson asked, baffled and vaguely impressed despite himself. “You can tell all that just from looking at this?”

The detective raised an eyebrow at him.

“Of course you can, my apologies,” Watson answered himself dryly. “Now, if you’re quite finished, I believe some warm water and towels are in—”

Holmes was gone, the door left half-open in his wake, before the doctor even finished speaking. Watson blinked, not quite sure what to make of his friend’s behavior. Curiosity was a major, unalterable part of the detective’s personality, and the interest he was showing in his injuries wasn’t unusual, but there was an underlying _intensity_ to Holmes’s actions so far that was odd. It wasn’t as though Holmes hadn’t born witness to his injuries in the past, but Watson had never been on the receiving end of a reaction like this before. It was strange and…intriguing.

His friend was back within minutes, footsteps surprisingly quiet, carrying a metal basin and a small wad of towels. “I’m afraid the water’s not as warm as it could be, Watson, but I felt waiting for too long would be unwise—”

Watson didn’t glance up from where he was still attempting to put pressure on the wound. “You didn’t take Mrs. Hudson’s good kitchen towels, did you?”

“…certainly not,” Holmes responded in a way that certainly didn’t fool Watson, the water sloshing quietly as the cloth soaked in the basin. “Now move your hand. You’re obstructing my view.”

The doctor hissed as the rag touched his skin, his leg jerking instinctively away. “Holmes! That water is not the least bit warm! At all!”

Holmes’s strong fingers fastened over his knee and reigned him back in. “You needn’t whine at a slight bit of cold, doctor. This will have to do. And if you could turn into the light…”

Watson grimaced and shifted while Holmes dragged the lamp across the desk, a slight frown marring his face. “Better?” he asked somewhat snidely.

“Indeed,” Holmes agreed almost absent-mindedly. He moved closer and seated himself on the floor between the doctor’s legs, dark eyes locked on the angry-looking gash in his right thigh. “Playing the Good Samaritan again, were you, Watson?”

Watson frowned at the disapproving tone in Holmes’s voice. “Good Samaritan, Holmes?”

The detective let his fingertips pass over the torn skin, not quite making contact, as he cleared his throat and continued. “An injury of this nature is not one made with the element of surprise. You placed yourself in a position where injury was more than likely.”

The doctor’s glare could have frozen the Sahara. “Are you saying this is my fault?”

“No, no,” Holmes disagreed, reaching into Watson’s bag and pulling out a small bottle that he uncapped without looking. “I’m saying due to the downward angle of the incision—”

“Holmes, stay out of my bag, I can do this myself—”

“—such a wound could only have been caused if—” Holmes splashed a small amount of the bottle’s contents onto Watson’s leg and slapped a towel over it, applying more pressure than Watson had.

“ _Holmes_! You didn’t even look at the label!”

“—you were crouched above your attacker,” Holmes finished, avoiding his friend’s attempts to remove the bottle from his clutches. “Calm yourself, my good man, it’s only hydrogen peroxide.”

Watson scowled and decided if he couldn’t reach the container he could bloody well reach Holmes’s collar and pull him closer. “You don’t know that!”

The dark-haired man raised the bottle for the inspection of blue eyes, his gaze darting from Watson’s face to the label. “See? You’re in good hands.”

Watson released a carefully measured breath and let Holmes thump back to the floor. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “ _Holmes_ …”

The man in question calmly straightened out his shirt before returning the bottle and continuing to root through the bag. “Next time, do try not to be attacked by your own patient, Watson.”

“I didn’t expect him to pull a knife on me,” Watson snapped irritably, lowering his hand. “Get out of my bag, Holmes.”

Holmes ignored him, his attention focused on the elusive objects of his search. “Inflicted by a right-handed person, although the sloppy execution suggests a hindrance of some kind, most likely with his depth perception. Possibly concussed. Am I correct in saying you were not his intended target?”

“ _Of course_ you’re right, you obviously don’t need me to tell you that,” Watson retorted, eyeing at the bag sitting just out of reach. “Holmes, what are you—no, Holmes, I am perfectly capable of doing the sutures myself. Put that away. _Now_.”

“You may find this surprising, Watson,” Holmes said loftily as he removed the needle, a few other metal instruments, and chromatic catgut from the doctor’s medical supplies, “but I myself am also quite adept at stitching wounds.”

“Despite your wondrous ability to know everything, Holmes, you don’t have your medical license,” Watson said flatly, narrowing his eyes. “Let me have that.”

The detective’s expression went as decidedly stubborn as a five-year-old child’s. “No.”

Watson glared at him. “Holmes.”

Holmes glared back at him. “Watson.”

“Holmes,” Watson tried again, trying valiantly to rein in his temper, “this is not like sewing—”

“I am well aware of that—”

“—and I need to stitch this up before I bleed out or it gets—”

“ _I_ need to stitch it up—”

“— _infected_!” Watson finished loudly, actively stopping himself from grinding his molars. “What makes you think—”

“ _How do you think I patched myself up before I met you, Watson?_ ” Holmes snapped through clenched teeth, his voice low with anger. “Surely you do not truly believe I am entirely dependent upon your services.”

Watson stared at him open-mouthed, shocked into silence. He shouldn’t have been surprised, really; Holmes had probably taught himself everything he knew about medicine and anatomy from books, his own personal experience, and God knew what else. But for some reason he’d always assumed Holmes must have had a different physician prior to their meeting.

“Now, the real question,” Holmes continued in a far steadier tone, “is whether or not you’d prefer a local anesthetic.”

“I…I’m out right now,” Watson said slowly, still watching the detective as something strange twisted around in his stomach. “I’d been planning on visiting the pharmacy tomorrow.”

Holmes huffed, clearly searching for other alternatives. He glanced up at Watson. “Since it also contributes to vasoconstriction, if you like, I can give you—”

“No, Holmes,” Watson said, and although his words were soft his intent was firm. “That is your vice, not mine. I’ll do without.”

Holmes’s lips thinned in disapproval and he pulled away the towel, but didn’t comment. “Very well. I’ll need you to move forward to the edge of the seat. Brace yourself, then.”

Gingerly, the doctor set a tentative hand on his friend’s shoulder as the man rose to his knees, his gaze intently focused on the wound. He gave no warning as the needle slid smoothly under the skin, the sharp sting registering instantly as Watson hissed out a breath, fingers digging into Holmes’s collarbone.

“Relax, Watson,” Holmes murmured softly, pausing in his work. “I know this is not comfortable in any sense of the word, but the stitches will be too tight if you do not relax.”

Watson closed his eyes and slowly, slowly, willed his body to relax. First releasing the tension in his hand and wrist, then the muscles in his arm, measuring his breathing, down into his stomach and through his legs, focusing on the feeling of Holmes’s fingers against his skin. He knew Holmes could feel the difference when his leg finally went slack because the detective resumed his task seconds later, working quickly and efficiently. A cold needle moving in, out, in, out, thread sliding through his flesh, tying knots carefully after each stitch, and Watson forced himself to stay calm, his heart rate normal, and occasionally reminded himself to breathe.

Ten minutes later Holmes pulled away, his absence followed by the splashing of water and rustling of cloth. Watson re-opened his eyes to see Holmes watching him, wiping his hands on another towel. 

“You were very lucky, Watson. A little more to your right and they’d have nicked your femoral artery, and then we’d have quite a problem on our hands.”

Watson looked down to see a neat little row of stitches securely holding the reddened skin of his thigh together, the pervading pain quieting into a dull throb. “Thank Heaven for small favors.”

“I imagine Heaven had very little to do with this,” Holmes said dismissively, tossing the towel back onto the desk. “Now, Watson, let’s see the rest of your injuries.”

The doctor frowned as he eyed Holmes warily, unconsciously leaning back in his chair. “What are you talking about, Holmes?”

Holmes sighed and rolled his eyes up to look at the flickering light on the ceiling. “Please don’t insult my intelligence, Watson. A man under attack resorts to using a weapon when he feels has no other options, unless he himself initiates the attack, which we have already established was not the case since he was already concussed. You were also not the intended victim of the knife, meaning there was at least one other person your attacker felt threatened by, and the dirt impressed upon the knees of your trousers suggests you were attempting to pin the man to the ground.”

Watson tore his gaze away because it was somewhat intimidating having the events of the past two hours recounted by a man kneeling directly in front of him, one who hadn’t even been present.

“That the man still felt the need to pull his weapon means his intended victim or victims were, most likely, beside you but out of range, probably already being pulled away by other spectators. You were involved in breaking up a rather vicious fight—“ Holmes let his eyes travel over his friend’s form, making Watson shift uncomfortably “—no doubt drawn by your professional weakness for injured persons, and you took a chance by inserting yourself right in the middle of things. Rather reckless behavior, Watson, and the likelihood you escaped unscathed, aside from your accidental stab wound, is fairly nonexistent.”

Running a hand over his moustache, Watson glanced up at the other man. “Impeccable as always, Holmes. However, should I have received any other minor injuries, I assure you I am quite capable of attending to them on my own—”

Holmes suddenly leaned forward with an unsatisfied tsking noise, the movement making Watson’s breath catch because this position was intimate even for Holmes, who only seemed to have the faintest idea about proper etiquette involving personal space. The detective had his coat unbuttoned and both hands under the fabric before Watson snapped out of his semi-paralysis, jerking away with enough force to knock the chair back an inch or two as color rushed into his face.

“Holmes!” he growled, voice rough from embarrassment, pain, and something else not worth acknowledging. “What are you doing?”

Holmes raised an innocent eyebrow, eyes roving across his features. “I assumed you required assistance removing your coat, Watson.”

“If I need assistance with anything, Holmes, I’ll ask for it!” Watson hissed angrily, shrugging out of his heavy overcoat with a glare that had long ago ceased to have any sort of impact on his friend.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Watson, of course you won’t,” Holmes said patronizingly, as though Watson should already be aware of this. “Everyone knows a doctor is his own worst patient. Now, if you’ll allow me—”

“Don’t touch me,” Watson snapped heatedly, already working on his frock coat with nimble fingers.

The detective leaned back a few inches, looking slightly put out, and at any other time Watson might have felt bad. But as it was, he was acutely aware he was undressing in front of Holmes and while it wasn’t the first time (after all, they’d shared close quarters before for one reason or another), the proximity had been nowhere near this close. Nor had the detective been watching him intently, for that matter, and the knowledge that things were different this time was making his blood pressure gradually rise.

He tossed both coats over his walking stick and moved on to the waistcoat, much easier than either of the outer coats, and threw it off to the side because Holmes was liable to walk off with it. The cravat came off next, a sharp tug removing the fabric from around his neck, joining the coats on the desk moments later. Only the dress shirt was left. A slight trembling in his hands took him slightly longer to push the buttons through the holes, a shiver racing down his spine as cool air drifted over his skin. Fumbling now with his shirt cuffs, they were caught at his wrists, but he’d honestly never had this much trouble with cufflinks before—

“Leave it,” Holmes interrupted quietly, pushing away the doctor’s hands. “That’s not necessary, Watson. I simply require…”

Cool hands ghosted over his sides, making Watson’s breath stutter in his chest as they brushed across his stomach and around towards his back. Inquisitive fingers pressed gently into his skin, warming with unusual speed until they left fiery tracks in their wake, and this wasn’t supposed to be nearly as erotic as it felt, it really wasn’t, but Watson couldn’t dispel the thoughts.

Holmes’s eyes darted between his face and his torso, waiting for a reaction, but the only sensations Watson was getting didn’t have anything to do with pain.

“No evidence of contusions or tenderness associated with widespread bruising,” began Holmes, muttering under his breath as both hands rose in tactual exploration of Watson’s ribcage. The doctor hissed in an involuntary breath as Holmes’s fingers worked his way along the sensitive skin, tracing each bone with a phantom-like touch. “Clamminess and hematomas generally attributed to internal haemorrhaging absent. Sensation and reflexes—” Holmes scraped a fingernail along one of Watson’s ribs, making the man involuntarily flinch and pull away “—appear to be fully intact, refuting the possibility of nerve damage.”

“Really, Holmes?” Watson tried to sound irritable but his voice box refused to cooperate, probably because with his heartbeat trying to double its rate, his lungs were now only second priority. Holmes seemed to understand anyway.

“I know you like it when I talk medical, Watson,” Holmes replied flippantly, still watching his fingers.

Watson rolled his eyes, shifting in his seat.

“However…”

The doctor froze as Holmes’s right hand snaked out to press two fingers against his throat, dark eyes locked on his.

“Despite your physically sound condition, you seem to be displaying several symptoms of what could possibly be hypovolaemia, among other things: quick, shallow breaths, rapid heart rate, extreme sensitivity to touch, and…dilated pupils.”

Neither said a word as silence stretched between them but Holmes didn’t pull away, less than a third of a meter separating one from the other. Watson’s pulse rushed under the detective’s fingers, it pounded louder in his ears with every passing second, but god damn him if Doctor Holmes wasn’t the most subtly attractive, provocative thing he’d ever seen in his life, and he just bought himself a one-way ticket to hell for even thinking that.

But not even his strong Christian upbringing could keep him from threading his fingers through dark hair and pulling Holmes forward until their mouths met. Holmes didn’t waste a second responding, awkwardly sliding forward on his knees as he surged up against him, the heat of Holmes’s hand sliding up his neck to his jaw. Warmth, warm breath against his face as the detective’s lips opened under his and an insistent tongue forced its way into his mouth. Watson instinctively pushed back against the intrusion, electricity scorching along his nerve endings to gather in the pit of his stomach to completely override the pervasive, smarting ache from his wound.

Watson fisted his left hand in the front of Holmes’s shirt and tugged, attempting to untuck the damn thing. The fabric came free on the fourth try, allowing him to run his hand over the smooth skin beneath, abs strongly defined from boxing that tensed and relaxed at his touch. The detective sighed, just a soft breath of air, a sound that traveled straight to his groin and that shirt needed to come off, _now_ , but buttons, there were all these buttons in the way again. They fell away easier than his own had— all five tiny shell disks free, parted, and out of the way in under ten seconds. Holmes slowed down the kiss as his hands began moving, lazily allowing the other man to take control while one hand slipped down the doctor’s chest and the other skimmed over his stomach, fingers scrabbling at the buttons on his trousers. Watson leaned back in his chair a little, trying to angle his hips forward in an effort to make things easier because the amount of clothing on their respective persons was absolutely outrageous—

Blinding, white-hot pain lanced abruptly through his leg like lightning as his newly-stitched skin protested fiercely, leaving him gasping at the unfamiliar feeling and automatically reaching for the source. Holmes immediately pulled away and cursed under his breath, gently pressing their foreheads together in apology with one hand on the back of Watson’s neck.

“Have…they torn?” The detective asked breathlessly, placing his other hand over Watson’s and meeting blue eyes only inches away.

Watson ran his tongue over his lower lip and took a couple steadying breaths through his nose, smugness spreading through him as Holmes’s gaze dropped to follow the movement. “No, it just…ahh…hurts like the dickens, now.”

Holmes nodded and cleared his throat awkwardly, patted the doctor’s hand, and rose to his feet. Paying only haphazard attention to his rumpled state, he began crookedly buttoning his shirt back up. “Well, I believe taking this any further would…hinder the desired healing process, Watson.”

The doctor snorted in amusement, looking up at his friend. “Is that all you have to say, Holmes?”

Holmes frowned, brow wrinkling as his eyes flitted around the room while he thought of what he was supposed to be saying. “…Is there a socially acceptable way I should be responding to this situation? If so, I’m afraid it’s eluding me at present.”

Rolling his eyes, Watson motioned Holmes forward. “Come here.”

“Watson,” Holmes said severely as he glanced at the curtains behind the seated man. “I must protest this flagrant disregard for your well-being—”

“Oh stuff it, Holmes,” Watson cut him off, glaring. “You weren’t protesting a minute ago. Now come here.” He hooked a finger in the waistband of Holmes’s trousers and dragged him forward with little resistance.

“Ah, yes, well, a minute ago I was a bit preoccupied—”

His words halted as the doctor yanked him down for a second kiss, using the distraction to correctly align the buttons on the detective’s shirt. Once finished, Watson pressed a hand against Holmes’s chest and shoved, compelling Holmes to take a few stumbling steps back.

“Now get out of here, Holmes. Your services are no longer required. For now.”

Holmes raised an eyebrow as he gathered his composure, eyeing Watson’s still open shirt. “’For now’?”

Watson couldn’t stop the slow curl of a smirk from reaching his lips. “Indeed. Although...tomorrow’s another day, I’ve heard.”

A knowing look darkened Holmes’s stare, magnified by the shadows of the room. “Is that a promise, Watson?”

“Perhaps,” Watson replied noncommittally, irises bright blue as he returned his friend’s gaze. “But if you continue to distract me, it may be necessary to prescribe myself several weeks of quiet, uninterrupted bed rest…”

Holmes turned on his heel and vanished out the door, this time remembering to close it behind him.


End file.
